


The Sniffle

by rare_colours



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, M/M, Pre-New 52, Tim Drake Birthday Hunt, Timeline What Timeline, Vaguely Presumed Dead Bruce, sick-fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25386226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rare_colours/pseuds/rare_colours
Summary: Dick carries the steaming plate of soup right up to the bed, balances it on his lap and asks with an angelic smile “would you like to be fed, babybird?”Tim hasall the feelingson the subject, but mostly he just wants to maintain the last shred of his dignity. His weak but panicked “don’t you dare!” is drowned out by the “here comes the choo-choo train!”, as Dick effortlessly shoves the first spoonful of soup right past his still open lips.
Relationships: Tim Drake/Dick Grayson, Tim Drake/Dick Grayson/Jason Todd, Tim Drake/Jason Todd
Comments: 10
Kudos: 241





	The Sniffle

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CommanderRice](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CommanderRice/gifts).



> Written for CreativeRice/CommanderRice as part of the Tim Drake Birthday Hunt.
> 
> Betaed by my good friend, and then a horrified me after a good night's sleep. Whoops. Sorry... ^_^;

It starts with a sniffle. He completely misses it. Tim, in fact, doesn’t register it at all, as he is elbows-deep in a quick wiretapping and bug run at the base of some up-and-coming gun smuggling ring.

Jason gave him the all-clear just last night, after they realized they’ve both been casing the same group for weeks, and Tim has every intention of getting it done while the getting is good. He has spotted both landlines as soon as he let himself into their laughably easy-to-enter hideyhole. They are retro enough to raise some eyebrows, but Tim is honestly not complaining about it. It gives him ample time to use a liberal amount of trackers on the crates and mysterious boxes lying around. Boxes of what look like drugs (he will have to test them in the cave, because he has no intention of letting Jason into his Nest), and crates of the new weapons they definitely should not have been able to acquire.

No matter. Jason called rank and possibly threatened bloody murder if Tim moved in without him, so this is his last stop for tonight. Before the cave. _Urgh_. Maybe that’s why he’s done in record time, feeling a rare eagerness to get home and get warm, even though his armour is insulated against the chill Gotham night air, and Doctor Frieze both. (It should have been his second clue. He misses this one, too.)

His third clue is an itch in his throat, a dryness that he cannot swallow down. This he notes idly as he is nearing the cave, keying in the passcode for the underground tunnel. The cave entrance feels damp, and he shivers as he slides back on his bike. He makes a note to have some of Alfred’s Earl Grey with a slice of lemon instead of another cup of coffee, and then promptly forgets about it.

His eyes start watering while he enters all the information he has gathered so far on the gang, location of the trackers, tests of the drugs he took, and access to all for Jason, lest he tracks Tim down in all of his Red Hood regalia, guns a-blazing. Good times, but Tim would rather curl up on his couch and take a nap. Which is mildly worrying, as he is not even nearing his 48th hour of sleep-dep. He is not used to having problems until he nears the 3-day mark. Also, his throat feels dryer than the Sahara. Was the cave always this chilly? _Also where is that draft coming from?_

But it’s not until Damian’s remark of “ _Drake, kindly take your germs elsewhere, we are trying to work here_ ”, that it clicks.

He sniffles for good measure and gets up from the console, narrowly clearing out before a veritable cloud of disinfectant envelopes the whole area he has been in as the gremlin sprays it all down with antibacterial spray. Tim wonders if he really looks that bad. He doesn’t, does he? He was fine just this morning.

He sniffles again.

“Drake, for all our sakes, go away and stop spreading your plague everywhere!”

He looks balefully at Damian, who wields the antibacterial spray bottle in a scarily efficient manner. It feels like staring down a cobra, Tim thinks, as he swings in counterpoint to the spray bottle’s opening. He idly wonders, were he not to comply, would a few pumps of it end down his throat? (The answer is _probably_ a resounding yes.)

“Fine. Tell Jason the wiretap went without a hitch. I bugged all the crates I could find, and the data for the trackers are all in the Batcomputer. I also did some tests…” He mutters, and huh. Was his voice this raspy the last time he spoke? He could almost give Bruce a run for his money. Maybe he should call it an early night. Just this once.

The bottle swings closer to his face with an inhuman hiss from the demonspawn. “Just go, Drake, lest you infect us all with your maladies.”

Well. The brat did ask nicely. From Damian’s mouth, it almost sounds like worry.

Tim spares him an exasperated look that probably doesn’t translate all that well with his domino still up, but it still feels like victory when the bottle drops an inch. He does hear the unmistakable hiss of a spray bottle being pressed as soon as he turns away, can almost feel the fog of antibacterial spray as it splatters his cape, but doesn’t have the energy to give the little shit a piece of his mind. Honestly, who is afraid of a few measly germs? Bruce would be so disappointed.

He climbs on his bike instead and makes for the Nest, shivering all the way home. He’s almost certain he has lemons in his fridge. Purchased this year. Go him! Making tea all by himself should be easy, right?

***

Tim dozes fitfully under a mountain of blankets, teacups and mugs strewn all over his desk and workbench. He started repurposing one of his many coffee makers into a tea brewer thingy, but the fog of runny sinuses descended upon him before he could figure out how to add a lemon feeder in there somewhere.

In his dreams Brucie is chasing him around with a giant bottle of disinfectant spray while Vicky Vale keeps yelling confusing questions at Tim. Damian keeps popping in out of thin air with full bottles to replace the empty ones, trying to trip Tim up before he is pulled off by Dick, who keeps asking Tim why he keeps running away from the family. Alfred stands quietly next to the banister on the ground floor, and holds up judge score cards whenever they pass, numbers seemingly at random.

Tim is desperately trying to get to the Batcave, because Brucie cannot follow him down there, but whenever he is trying to turn the clock’s arms, a proximity alarm blinks back at him from the screen instead. It is very frustrating, because he has to start another lap then, lest Brucie catches up with him and makes Tim drink warm disinfectant with lemon. He thinks that’s really not fair.

He is running through the maze that is the third floor, jumping over Damian’s menagerie of cats and dogs (did they multiply or were there always this many of them?), when he is gently pulled out of sleep by two arms enveloping him. His head swims until he is righted, face flopping against a soft flannel-covered chest, and then he is swaying gently as he is being princess carried.

“Whu?” he tries, but never gets out more than that as he is shushed gently.

“Timmy.” There is a world of reproach in that one word. He would protest, but his throat feels like sandpaper. “Why didn’t you tell any of us you were so sick?” Dick asks him when he gets nothing back, his tone quite clearly worried.

The sound Tim makes as he clears his throat is worrying. “I didn’t know it was this bad. Wasn’t this sick since I was a little kid.”

It happened when he spent a whole night camped out on a roof, in the middle of Bat-patrol territory, only for none of them to show up. The subsequent cold was bad enough that Jack and Janet Drake almost cancelled their next trip to stay home and worry over their son. Tim had a nasty cough that lasted weeks. He was more careful from then on. Until today, it seems.

“You should have told us.” The acrobat insists. “Tim, you were sleeping down there in the cold! You need to be in bed, where it’s warm!” Dick says as he smooths the younger boy’s sweaty hair back from his forehead, his big hands warm and soothing on Tim’s clammy skin. “You need food! You can’t sustain yourself on energy drinks and coffee alone. You should have stayed in the manor so we could nurse you back to health!”

Tim tries to give Dick the stink eye, but as the room tilts worryingly, he gives up. No matter his misgivings about trust, replacements and all things Nightwing, he really doesn’t mind being close to Dick again. Even if it is just a perfunctory princess carry up to his bed. He is not too proud to take what he can, while it lasts. He’s just glad the acrobat didn’t drag the little gremlin with him.

Dick, maybe feeling Tim’s resentment, sighs and starts over in a softer tone, “Alfred sent soup and some ginger tea. He was… is quite worried. When Jason couldn’t get a hold of you, Damian told us what happened. And then it took me half an hour to get in here, the whole place was in lockdown! Was it intentional?!”

Tim might be hallucinating, or maybe it’s the illness, but he would swear he hears hurt in Dick’s voice. He ponders whether he may have initiated a lockdown while he was dodging his family in his fever dream, or if Dick hit some of the safety measures. Decides discretion is the better part of valor, and shrugs.

Dick sighs, clearly exasperated, but he is all gentle movements as he deposits Tim in his bed. And then effortlessly and mercilessly wrangles him in a blanket burrito, trapped in place by a mountain of his throw pillows (Tim is cursing his indulgence of buying so many, no matter how comfy they are to flop on), boxes of tissues laid all around him like offerings in an ancient Viking grave. He feels warmth spreading in his chest as he stares at his… at Dick, as he surveys the room with his arms on his hips, eyes bright, grin sharp but so very warm.

“All right, babybird! Do you feel well enough for that soup now?”

Tim nods. Tries to free one of his hands, strains hard, but the burrito holds firm. Or maybe he is just weak as a newborn kitten. The jury’s out on that one.

Instead he watches as Dick nods and leaves the room, thoroughly enjoys the sight of him until it is gone from his view, and listens as the older man putters around the kitchen. The microwave beeps happily, and _Alfred must never be told that his food has been reheated there_ , of that Tim is sure.

Dick carries the steaming plate of soup right up to the bed, balances it on his lap and asks with an angelic smile “would you like to be fed, babybird?”

Tim has _all the feelings_ on the subject, but mostly he just wants to maintain the last shred of his dignity. His weak but panicked “don’t you dare!” is drowned out by the “here comes the choo-choo train!”, as Dick effortlessly shoves the first spoonful of soup right past his still open lips.

Tim makes a note to wipe his surveillance footage later as he chomps down on the spoon and clings onto it, eyes accusatory and glaring until Dick admits defeat and helps wrangle his right arm out of the blankets. The soup remains in Dick’s hands as he carefully balances it on the top of the cocoon, watching Tim eat.

Tim… Tim is feeling oddly touched as Dick says nothing before setting the empty plate down on the bedside table and hopping on the bed next to him. He thought Dick would leave after he was fed and in bed, but apparently the older man is there to stay, as indicated by Dick pulling out a remote control, trying to pull up Tim’s Netflix account.

“Aren’t you going back to the manor?” Tim blurts before his brain can catch up. _Damn it all_. He desperately wishes he could take it back, because now Dick will have to go back, because the brat is _unsupervised_ , without Dick’s warm hugs and doting brotherly love. “To Damian.” He specifies, because why not. _This is why we can’t have nice things_.

He sees, in the periphery of his wobbly vision, as Dick sets down the remote. “Tim. Babybird. I know I…” yep, apparently they really will have this discussion, and Dick will actually be honest about it. Tim is _shocked_. Also a bit furious. He is… maybe not a happy sick person. Nope, definite tick in the unhappy column, underlined thrice. Tim in fact feels awful and the ball of sadness and resentment in the back of his throat is really hard to swallow down.

He turns to face Dick, starting a small avalanche as the blankets slide down his shoulders. The acrobat frowns and reaches over to tug them back up, tucking in the ends so Tim is snug as a bug and twice as sweaty. The smile he gives Tim is small but firm and so hopeful Tim is unconsciously halfway to forgiving him, demonspawn, snotpocalypse and replacements be damned.

“So. Tim.” Dick starts up again, and… stops. Tim raises an eyebrow. Dick swipes a hand over his face.

“I fucked up, okay? I dropped the ball. I didn’t _think_ … I didn’t think about how much you were hurting. How many people you’ve lost. I just saw a kid in need… _B’s kid_ , who didn’t have anybody safe or sane around him, and I thought… Robin was something that gave each of us something, just when we needed it. And I thought… I thought he needed it more than you did. But then I added insult to injury and I _didn’t listen to you_. I just shoved all the proof to the side, because I thought you were just grief stricken. And because I thought if I could just fix Damian… _His_ kid… then the tradition… Bruce’s legacy would go on.”

Dick is looking at him with big, sad puppy eyes, and Tim can kind of understand him. Because this tradition Bruce has started with the lost, troubled boys who become Robin, who then become pissed-off adults when they plummet from the nest when replaced without notice… well. Happened to Robin 1, 2 and now 3. Tim can give Dick this much. None of them passed on the mantle themselves, it was passed on for them. Though for Tim, it was at the most inopportune time.

Still. Tim can find it in himself to forgive. _Now_ , as Dick seems to show true remorse. That sad, desolate, closed off part that formed _when all of his friends, as well as his last remaining father figure died and his entire identity was yanked from right under him_ starts to ease up. He is still mulling it over, while apparently Dick decides the lack of reply means he has not groveled enough. The heartfelt litany that starts up is both glorious… and a bit humbling.

“God, I’m really, really sorry, Timmy. I know I did the worst possible thing at the worst possible time, but I really hope you can still forgive me, because I don’t want us to be like this, I don’t want you hurt. I want to fix it any way I can. But… but I would understand if you couldn’t forgive me. I know Damian has been… I know you two had a rough start, and I know what a little brat he can be. I’m not blind. And I can’t imagine what you went through when even your family wouldn’t believe you.” Dick rubs the bridge of his nose, looking just tired and fed up and disgusted. “When nobody but Ra’z Al Ghul believed you. I’m… I’m really not proud of that part of my life.”

Tim blinks slowly. Huh. Well. _Okay then_.

He reaches out his one free hand to Dick, taking the hand not covering half his face in apparent shame. “Apology accepted.” He would say more, but the ball in his throat has grown three sizes, and he feels tenderized, as if he has been scrubbed clean from the inside out.

Dick, possibly in a bid to regain his composure, tries to find the screen behind the hidden panel. Because of course he has Tim’s remote in his hands.

"So, Timmy..." the acrobat says, turning to him. "What do you say to a little Netflix and chill?"

And of course Tim is too tired to say anything now, to explain all that is Netfix and chill, so he just blows his nose, blows it again… and again, and then just nods, tabling _that_ discussion for later. _Much later_. Because inevitably Dick will end up asking Damian or Alfred the same question, and Tim can’t let them go through _that_ particular horror.

He reaches instead for the remote to start the Karate Kid series, and is gratified when Dick settles down next to him, pulling a blanket over himself and gives Tim a tired but radiant smile.

***

Tim dreams. He is certain Dick wasn’t naked the last time he was begging for Tim’s forgiveness, but he is now. Tim wasn’t either, for that matter. But here Dick is, on his knees, begging Tim to forgive him with a soft, insistent voice, crooning at him. It makes the younger man want to sink down to join him on the floor, only Dick’s hands sliding up his thighs are keeping him in place. Hot, calloused palms rub against the inside of his thigs, and he can’t stop the tremble of anticipation as they inch their way slowly upwards. With want pooling in his stomach, he watches the acrobat as he leans closer and closer, eyes dark, fixed forward on the task, cheeks flushed, opening his mouth to…

There is a proximity alarm going off. As he wakes up, Tim wants to cry.

He looks over at Dick’s side of the bed (and feels a flutter in his chest, a new wave of happiness, promptly doused by the apprehension of the semi he is doubtfully sporting) only to find it empty. That would mean Dick went out to confront whoever or whatever tripped off the proximity alarms. Again.

Why is this his life again?!

A solid thump that reverberates around his whole flat jerks him out of his bemoaning of life, the universe and everything. Also… is that a quiet conversation he hears, that’s getting louder and louder? (Yet still indecipherable, dammit.)

Welp. There’s nothing to it. Bruce did teach him how to get out of impossible bindings. It’s not like he wanted to do _anything_ tonight, and yes, it includes staying in the tightly wound cocoon around him that puts Dick’s overbearing hugs to shame, but his curiosity is mounting. He does drag the blanket with him, though.

This is how Tim walks in on the absurd sight of Jason Todd, in civilian clothing, laden with bags of groceries... in Tim's pristine kitchen.

He must feel the absurdity himself, because Jason looks absolutely flustered at being caught.

"The hell, Timbo. Were you expecting an army of ninjas, or should I take it you're just not happy to see me?" he asks with a raised eyebrow and a cocked hip, the tips of his ears… oh sweet Tesla, are they reddening with a blush?!

They all take a moment to process this. Tim wants to say a lot of things, but he is too tired, especially if it ends up in a shouting match, as it inevitably would with the 3 of them. Too much baggage is a _gross_ understatement.

“Ninjas” is what he settles on and trudges to the couch to curl up under his blanket.

"What are you doing here?" asks Dick with a frown much bigger than what Tim thinks the occasion calls for.

Jason raises the eyebrow back at him again. "Could ask you the same question, Boy Wonder, since the last time he needed you, you gave him the boot."

 _Ouch_. Fair, but still ouch. Tim can see Dick's hackles rising, inevitable like the tide, whenever faced with the second Robin.

“And you almost slit his throat and beat him bloody! And you are _rude_ to him!” Dick hisses back. Tim thinks Damian is rubbing off on him. That was a pretty decent hiss if he says so himself.

Jason raises the other eyebrow at that. “’Scuse you, Dickiebird. I’m rude to everyone.”

Tim snorts. And then blows his nose, because eww. But also he just can’t resist a mystery. So he steps into the breach. Ok, more like shuffles, stumbles and faceplants. Still counts!!

"What are you doing here, Jason?" He asks with his brand new, husky voice.

And Jason… huh. Jason actually looks at him without his perpetual sneer of disgust and pit rage. Tim’s really not prepared for that look from this particular ex-Robin.

"Thought I'd cook for you. Wasn't sure you knew how or were up to the task. The demon brat said you were at death's door." He scratches the back of his head awkwardly, staring at the countertop.

"But." Tim clears his throat, tries again. He’s pretty sure he can be forgiven for not jumping to conclusions. "Why?"

Jason gives him a _look_ Tim is not sure how to decipher. "Why not? You obviously feel like shit. Let someone else help you for a change... also... I was in the neighborhood and wanted to make sure you didn't just end up faceplanting into random equipment in your super-secret birdcave and die of malnutrition when your coffee ran out."

Dick, the traitor that he is, cackles.

Jason whips his head around to stare down the acrobat. “It’s not like you are any better, Dickie. Almost burnt down the whole kitchen when you tried to boil water! I’m well aware that Alf permanently rescinded your kitchen privileges. They had to repaint the whole room!” He points a threatening finger at Dick. “You think I’d trust you to look after for Timmy here? _Watch me_.”

Tim ducks down deeper under his blanket. This is not happening. This must be a fever dream. Dick he could imagine. That apology was a completely logical culmination of their… _issues_. Tim _earned_ that apology. But this? Jason coming over to… what? Cook for him? Nurse him back to health? Florence Nightingale he definitely wasn’t. Tim’s not sure what he hit his head on, or how high his fever must be, but he is certain this must be his most vivid hallucination yet. He cranks his head around to look for Brucie and his disinfectant spray.

He must have spaced out, craning his head this way and that, because when he turns back, both men are staring at him.

“Timmy? You ok?” Dick asks and wastes no time beelining to the couch to smooth his hand over the younger boy’s brow. “You’re running a little bit hot, babybird.” He sighs, tightening the blankets until Tim starts to complain, and then he disappears in the direction of the bathroom. If Tim were in a better shape, he would be worried why Dick seems to know the layout of his flat so very well.

Instead he just sighs, lets it all go and potates.

Jason meanwhile stands in the middle of his main room-slash-kitchen, next to his grocery-laden breakfast island and stares in the direction Dick went off and back at Tim. When he gets nothing but what must undoubtedly be Tim’s curious stare out of his blanket cocoon, he sighs.

“I’ll just start, shall I?”

Out of his bunker of blankets, Tim nods.

Jason clears his throat. “You gonna watch? Great. That’s… yeah. _Great_.”

With that, he starts unpacking. Tim can see carrots, potatoes, garlic, some sort of meat, a few onions and boxes of mystery spices. He is so engrossed watching Jason wash the veggies, biceps bulging very nicely, shoulders rolling, that he entirely misses Dick’s return. He almost jumps through the roof when Dick puts the thermometer in his ear (cold!!!), humming at the number only he can see. Tim must make questioning noises, because the older man smiles at him.

“It’s ok, you’re just a little bit over 99°. If it gets any worse, we’ll have to medicate you. Let’s hope whatever Jason makes will agree with you.”

“Fuck you too, Dickface. I’m an excellent cook, thank you very much.” The _Red Hood_ , who is in Tim’s _kitchen_ , shoots back good naturedly. “You do remember, I’m the one who learnt from Alfred, right? The only one who still has his kitchen privileges?”

Dick sighs. Tim stares at each of them. It’s not like he has been privy to a lot of peaceful family reunions and meetings, so he thoroughly enjoys the gentle (for Jason) barbs and back-and-forth between his favorite Robins. Jason opening cabinets and pulling out pans and various utensils is a nice sight, too. Don’t even get him started on Jason with a chef’s knife he must have brought from home, because Tim doesn’t remember ever purchasing a knife _that_ big.

Tim’s not sure this classifies as food porn, but he is glad Dick is not taking his temperature just when Jason starts chopping vegetables with ruthless efficiency. The knife is just a blur as carrots and parsnips are decimated. He gives Dick a side-eye, glad to find that the acrobat is also observing the proceedings with huge eyes and a slack mouth. So he turns back to see Jason start on the potatoes, fingers deftly turning the slices and haranguing everything into neatly stacked piles.

“What are you making?” Dick blurts out.

Jason looks up at them, finds them staring and lets a crooked smile grace his lips. “Goulash soup.”

Tim blinks. Not sure he ever had any. He is looking forward to trying Jason’s.

After the meat and onions are chopped, Jason brings out the wok Tim has always meant to try to use, but never has so far. It was shoved in under some other pots and pans, and Tim might make a noise like a dying cat as Jason leans down, presenting them with his glorious backside (almost as good as Dick’s, but definitely better thighs) as he tries to wrangle the wok free. Tim is certainly feeling hot under that blanket of his now, idly scratching at the back of his neck as sweat beads and starts sliding down his scalp.

Onion sizzles in the pan, the scent wafting at them and making their eyes water for a hot second, before Jason pulls it from the heat and adds something red to it from one of the little boxes he brought with him.

“What’s that?” Tim husks before he can catch himself.

“Hm?” Jason looks at him as he stirs the wok gently, adding the meat to it. “Paprika. The real stuff too. Picked it up in Hungary a couple of years ago.” He doesn’t say more. Tim doesn’t need serious calculations to know it must have been before he came back to Gotham to harass Bruce. Knows better than to ask _what_ Jason was doing there.

He nods instead and watches as the older man starts turning and turning it, eyes fixed on the wok’s contents as it goes back on the heat. Tim’s mouth starts to water. He never knew Jason was such a good cook. He feels somehow cheated nobody told him that little tidbit.

He watches as Jason reaches for his other little boxes and garlic, with each added spice the scent mingling around the room gets better and better. He is happy he still has his sense of smell, it’d be a shame to miss this. This might be his only chance to experience Jason’s cooking, though not, if it is up to him. Even the sight is a treat. Tim wonders if he could convince Jason to wear an apron the next time…

It’s not until Jason covers the wok and comes over to sit across from them that Tim blinks back into awareness. He might be too late yanking his gaze from Jason’s thighs, but can anybody blame him? If Dick has the best ass of them all, Jason surely wins the most defined thigh competition, hands down.

“Is it done then?” Tim asks as he swallows back saliva. His stomach rumbles a bit.

Jason chuckles. “Nah. The meat needs to be cooked, or almost cooked before I can add the vegetables, and then it’ll cook until they pass the poke-test. Will need about an hour of slow-cooking.” He takes in Tim’s crestfallen expression and sighs. “You hungry now?”

Tim makes a conscious decision to nod. Jason promptly stands back up goes to the counter and in less than a minute comes back with a sandwich. Tim’s pretty sure he is hallucinating, there is no other option, but still accepts the food and devours it.

Jason chuckles. “Whoa, Timmy. Could have told us you were starving. Didn’t Dickface feed you?”

“He did!” Tim protests when he can speak again. “I was just hungry again.”

The side of Jason’s mouth ticks up. “Good. You should be. You look like a gust of wind could knock you over.”

Dick _awwws_.

Tim’s not sure which one to send his withering glare to. He has well defined muscles, maybe too well-defined for a boy… man?… his age, thanks very much. He is Red Robin. He can take on the League of Assassins, if he needs to, that gust of wind can stuff itself. He would even tell them that, but he is feeling warm and cozy in his blanket cocoon, and he just needs to close his eyes. Just a little.

***

He wakes up to being carried. _Again_. Oh, the indignity will never end. He sighs and cranes his head around to stare Dick down, only it’s not Dick this time.

“Welcome to the waking world, Timbo.” Jason says with his crooked smile, a smile that reaches his eyes. A smile Tim has never seen before. “Would you like to eat now?”

He nods. He feels as Jason turns around and takes him back to the couch, deposits him and pats his shoulder. Then he is off, ladling soup into a big mug Tim usually uses for heavy doses of coffee, adds a spoon and comes back to sit next to him. The mug is warm when the older boy hands it to him, but it’s definitely not the blazing heat of a freshly cooked meat.

“Thank you.” He tells Jason, because what else can he say? This whole day has been surreal. If it is still… what day was it again? Wednesday?

“Yeah, be careful with it.” Jason advises. “Paprika stains. Try not to dump it over yourself.”

Tim nods and takes a few gulps of the soup. Flavors explode over his tongue, and he thinks he must have made some sort of noise, because Jason is staring at him with a blush on his cheeks.

“It’s good.” He offers. “Really good. Thanks again.”

Jason opens his mouth. Closes it. Clears his throat.

“Yeah, you’re welcome.”

They sit next to each other on the couch. Jason ready to catch the mug, should Tim drop it in his frailness, and Tim is willing to forgive him that just this once. Because _soup_. And Tim sips until he can’t. Then he grabs the spoon and makes short work of whatever’s left at the bottom. It’s delicious. The meat is butter soft and falls apart before he can chew on it, and the parsnips are _sweet_. Tim thinks he should never tell Alfred, but he thinks Jason has him beat at the soup department, hands down.

When his spoon hits empty porcelain, he actually whines. He doesn’t remember the last time he wanted food this bad, but he is not left wanting. Jason plucks the mug from his hands and brings it back refilled to the brim.

“I love you!” Tim says, unbidden. And then he blanches as Jason stares at him, eyes huge, jaws slack. “I mean the soup!!!” Tim specifies, horrified. “The soup’s really, really good. Like… don’t tell him, because I will deny it, but better than Alfred’s, ok? I love your soup.”

Jason goes red. Red like the paprika he used earlier. It’s a sight to behold. Tim would love to know how far down it goes…

He clears his throat and laughs. “Uh… thanks, Tim. Feel free to wax poetic about it.”

Tim tips back the mug and busies his mouth instead. When he finishes, he feels full. Can feel the warmth of the soup spreading throughout his body, making him woozy and tired.

“Yep, naptime.” Jason says as he takes the mug from his lax fingers, deposits it in the sink and then pulls Tim up in his arms like it is _nothing_. Aaaand they are back on the way to his bedroom. Tim would get ideas, but he is just so tired and full and _tired_ , that he can’t. He just grabs onto Jason’s red hoodie as the older boy deposits him on the bed, pulling it with him.

“Jesus, ok. I’ll stay. I promised Dickie I’ll not leave you alone until he comes back anyway.” Is his answer as Jason just hops over him and flings the covers over them both. “Wanna watch something until you fall asleep?”

“Mmmhm. You pick.” Tim nods magnanimously, almost asleep. He can hear ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife’” and then nothing.

***

The bed dipping next to him snaps him out of dead sleep. He wasn’t even dreaming, he thinks, but he can hear people whispering over him.

“He dropped off right after he inhaled two cups of soup. Has been out for hours.” He hears Jason say.

“What about his temperature?” asks Dick accompanied by rustling.

“Broke like an hour ago. He is definitely getting better. If you need to go, go. I can stay with him till morning.”

“It’s fine. It was a slow night anyway. Want to stay with us tonight? Do some family bonding? Netflix and chill?”

“Jesus _Christ_ Dickie, what the hell?!” Jason yelps, and if that wouldn’t be enough to wake Tim up, the bed bouncing under the other boy would have. “I think Tim’s too sick for an orgy!”

“…what?!”

Tim decides this trainwreck he has to see, is happy neither of them notice he is awake.

“Dick. _Netflix and chill_. It’s codeword for _fucking in front of the TV_. Where the fuck do you learn things like that?” Jason asks, incredulous, a smile obviously trying to break free over his handsome face.

“I don’t know, I heard it somewhere. I thought it was just watching TV and having a night in! Oh my god, _I told Timmy that earlier!_ ” He looks absolutely horrified.

“And you didn’t put out? Dickie, you absolute tease!”

“What?! It’s Timmy!”

There is a pregnant pause. Jason clears his throat, suddenly looking wrongfooted.

“And? Kid’s been mooning at your ass for years now. Don’t tell me you never noticed. Hell, until you kicked him to the curb he thought the sun shone out of that perfect ass of yours.”

“I… what?”

“Want me to repeat myself?” Jason raises an eyebrow and then looks down at Tim, like he is asking for help explaining this. Because of course he noticed Tim was awake. Tim wants to crawl under the bedding, possibly under the bed itself. He is not ready for this conversation at all. He isn’t sure he ever would be ready to reveal his crush on Dick. Ever.

He yanks the blankets over his head. He is not proud of it, but he is not ready to deal with this first thing in the… whatever part of the day this is. _Without coffee_. He wants to throttle Jason.

The movement obviously alerts Dick, because there is a gentle tug from his side of the bed on the covers. “Timmy?”

“No.”

There is silence. Possibly horrified. On all ends.

“No what?” Dick asks gently.

Tim turns over, pulls the pillow over his head. “I’m going to murder Jason.”

“Cold, babybird. And I even did you a favour.”

Tim hits him with the pillow. “In what world is this a favor?!”

Jason grabs the pillow, pulls it out of Tim’s hand and throws it to the end of the bed. His face is gentle, but his hair is mussed. Tim would be mortified if he… well, if he wasn’t already.

“In the world were if you are a good boy, and admit you want in on that,” he gestures at a red-faced, sputtering Dick, “and you get well enough to play, then you get to join the adults when they have _fun_.”

Tim blinks. Recalibrates. Isn’t sure he jumped to the right conclusion. “Adults as in…?”

Jason points to the still gaping Dick and then at himself. “Unless you were staring at my ass and thighs today by mere accident?”

Tim shakes his head mutely. The clammy feeling he has been having since Jason did his whole reveal turns into blazing heat and sweat prickling his armpits. He might need to shower later. _Much later_ , when his uninvited houseguests have left. He is so confused.

“You and Dick…?”

Jason sits down on the bed. He still looks gentle, which is… yeah Tim has hit his confusion threshold. He needs more data before he can extrapolate _anything_.

“Yeah,” Jason says, “Dick and me. And if you want, it can be you, Dick and me. Just get well first, all right, Timmy?” he reaches over to Tim’s hair, but stops short of touching the younger boy. Because of course Jason is a gentleman. (When not in a pit rage, that is.)

Tim raises a little to bump his head in that hand, giving permission. It seems to open the floodgates, because Dick climbs into the bed next to him and plasters himself against Tim, giving him a loose hug.

“Is this ok?” he asks Tim, who mutely nods back.

And then Jason rolls over and throws an arm over them both.

Tim… Tim is still tired and his sinuses feel stuffy and hot, and he thinks he has at least one more day of being sick in him. And then… well, apparently he had been invited into the bed of two older Robins. So the only thing he can do, once he is healthy again, is to see if he is… ah… _up_ to it.


End file.
